


and the rockets

by sonofahurricane



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Young Avengers
Genre: Fireworks, Fourth of July, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, self-indulgent America feelings fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofahurricane/pseuds/sonofahurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time around the Fourth of July is always contentious for the Bradleys. Takes place before the events of YA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the rockets

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that post rolling around tumblr reminding people to be mindful of veterans potentially being triggered by fireworks.

Eli hears them in his chest before he really hears them in his ears: the rapid -- _pop pop pop pop_ \-- of firecrackers and the joyous, piercing laughter of stupid kids out in the street.  A block, two blocks away, it doesn’t matter--it’s all illegal anyway, and worse, it means Grandpa will-

Eli strains to hear the rapid footsteps of his grandmother across the apartment, to the chair his grandfather usually occupies late into the night, until he can be prodded into bed. Isaiah is not a man who speaks very often, his mind worn away by years of experimentation, of isolation. But Eli can hear his voice as more crackers are set off -- _pop poppoppop pop_ \-- the hoarse cry from his grandfather's chair, and the shushing of his grandmother.

It's not like it’s unusual--there are all sorts of ways to trigger PTSD, Eli knows that, and fireworks seem like an obvious one. They’re intentionally made to sound like BOMBS, of course they’re going to trigger an episode. It’s much more obvious than some of Grandpa's other triggers: the smell of burnt eggs, keys jangling at a certain pitch, and sometimes things Eli can’t detect at all, can’t figure out, can only grit his teeth against as he tries to guide his grandfather through the hell of war--again.

The shouting gets a little louder, and so does his grandmother's voice, not a shout, just a gentle command for "Isaiah, calm down, it's me, I'm here with you, you're fine, you're fine--" because what else are you supposed to do when a Super Soldier thinks he’s back in a combat situation in the middle of your living room?

Eli slinks out of his chair and pads down the hallway, glancing into the living room. Grandpa has calmed down some, is settling back in his chair, still shaking, and Grandma’s hand is on his shoulder. She catches Eli's eye over the back of Grandpa's chair and smiles sadly, shrugging as if to say "What are you going to do?"

And what _is_ she going to do? It’s only a week now until the Fourth of July, and the neighborhood’s only growing in their anticipation for the festivities. Eli has no doubt that things are gonna escalate from firecrackers to something much, much louder, something much more like a bomb, before the holiday’s over. Still, it’s no secret that Grandpa lived here, isn’t a secret that he had served in the Army and that he hadn't come back from his war experience the same man that he had been when he left. War fucks a man up, Eli knows that, and he can’t understand why his neighbors would decide to shoot off fireworks in the same neighborhood where a Super Soldier survivor lives.

Eli slouches, watches Grandma brace for the next wave of firecrackers--and here they are-- _poppoppop pop_. Grandpa moves his head, but stays pretty quiet, Grandma shushing him and stroking the side of his face. The laughter courses up through the window, kids who don’t know the first damn thing about the shit they’re playing with. Eli’s face burns, and he turns swiftly on his heel. “Grandma, I’m going out,” he says curtly over his shoulder, doesn’t even turn to see her reaction, and he slams the door maybe a little too  hard.

He can hear his name over his shoulder as he pounds down the stairs, “Elijah!” but he doesn’t stop. He slams his feet into the concrete steps, is at the bottom of the building nine times faster than it takes his grandfather to climb to the first floor, much less the fourth. There’s a fizzing and  Eli grits his teeth against the impact in his chest of a larger firework, doesn’t bother waiting for the roar of his grandfather from upstairs, and pushes through the front door of the building, stumbling over his own feet out into the street.

They’re a block north. He can see them from where he’s standing, a bunch of goddamn kids, his age or maybe a little older, white boys in muscle shirts and basketball shorts, throwing caps at each other, the air smelling faintly of smoke and gunpowder. One huddles over some cheap firecrackers from the display at the corner store up the street, brandishing his goddamn Bic lighter, leaping away from the shit he’s trying to light when one of the other idiots throws a cap at him.

“Shit, look out where you’re throwing that,” the one with the lighter snaps, and the three other boys laugh.

“Come on you big pussy, light the goddamn crackers.”

 _Yeah, light the crackers_ , Eli thinks grimly as he tries to make his shoulders look broader, walking toward them with the nearly-set sun sinking over his frame. Grandma would have glared at him for saying that, but she can’t police whatever the hell is in his head, can she?

“Hey,” he says as Lighter Boy goes in with the Bic again, the flame glowing yellow against his skin. “Get outta here. The Fourth isn’t for another week. It’s not even _July_.”

The boys all freeze, like their moms just called for them or something. They all turn slowly to face him, and Eli figures he can regret this all later, because they don’t look pleased to see him.

“Yeah what the fuck do you know about that?” one of the boys snarls back at hime. “We’re not gonna wait for the Fourth.”

He’s got a cap in his hand--Eli can see it between his thumb and forefinger. He guesses he should just be glad they don’t seem to have a cap gun. Maybe he should be focusing on if they have a real gun. Shit. _Nice going Eli_.

“Yeah, what the fuck dude, are you some un-American _terrorist_?” The second one squints, like he was trying to figure out how much Eli might possibly look a terrorist, as if you can tell that from looking at a dude.

“You mean like Timothy McVeigh?” he snarls back, and the reference goes way over their heads, but it’s not like young white dudes give a fuck about white terrorists anyway.

“Hey how about _you_ get the hell out of here before we call the police on your ass.”

Eli practically rolls his eyes. “For what, shooting off fireworks illegally? Oh, wait…” he gives them his blankest ‘you’re an idiot’ look.

“Get the fuck out of here, terrorist!”

Then there’s a misaimed slur and a cap tossed at him, and Eli’s seeing red, can’t take any more bullshit. He steps through the pop of the cap, grabs Skinny White Dude Number Three by the front of the shirt and hauls him forward so they’re literally nose to nose. Number Three squeaks in panic and Eli guiltily thinks of the Great Men of the past, the ones his grandmother calls forth when Eli’s room is a mess or he’s complaining in his seat at the dinner table, men who could make white boys like this one flinch and cringe in terror without laying a hand on them--Martin and Malcolm, Booker T. and W. E. B, Turner and Douglass.

But they didn’t have grandfathers who were heroes screaming in their apartments, didn’t live in the same house as _Captain America_ and be called un-American. “There are _veterans_ on this block,” Eli snarls. “Men who gave their _lives_ for this country, who still see their buddies blown apart when they close their eyes at night, and you shits playing at war in the street are no welcome home for them.” He lets go of Number Three, pushes him back, and all three of them are gaping at him. He’s almost impressed with himself, when he feels a giant hand come down on his shoulder, and he knows it’s not him they’re staring wildly at.

“Eli,” Isaiah’s gravelly voice roughs its way along the street. The kids are practically shaking in their boots, ‘cause there’s nothing more terrifying than a massive black man with a voice like a rolling stone. “Inside? Please?”

Eli exhales heavily through his nose, his heart still racing. There’s a bunch of skinheads who slink around the neighborhood, get their kicks out of trying to harass Isaiah, and it’s better if he’s inside, so Eli lets his shoulders relax. “Sure, Grandpa. You get started, I’ll be with you in a second.” He doesn’t turn around to watch his grandfather go, moving slowly back towards the apartment building, but he can hear the _drag-drag-shuffle_ of his steps, can feel him trudge along the street and watch the eyes of the boys follow his movements.

“Who the hell is that,” exhales Lighter Boy, and Eli feels a surge of pride and anger. His back snaps to attention, like he’s a soldier, even though he _swore_ after what they did to his grandfather, he’d never enlist.

“That’s Isaiah Bradley,” he says, his eyes bright in the light of the streetlights that are slowly flickering on. “He’s the first Captain America, and he lives just up the street. So watch out when you’re breaking the law.” And he turns on his heel, _click_ , just like the army wants you to, and races to catch up with Isaiah, slips his hand into the older man’s massive one.

There’s the slow burn of shame in the pit of his stomach--because he couldn’t get the boys to stop, because Isaiah was back in the middle of a war just minutes before and then he had to come out to save Eli’s ass--but he pushes it down and focuses on getting his grandpa up the stairs and back into the apartment. His grandmother is sitting with her hands primly in her lap when they come back up. Isaiah’s shoulders practically take up the entire entrance to the living room, and when Eli glances back up at him from underneath his arm, he’s smiling.

“No harm,” he says, and Grandma’s steely eyes give Eli a slow up-down, assessing him for any injuries he might be hiding.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” she reminds Eli, then turns to her husband. “Have a seat, darlin’. I’m going to have some words with Elijah here, and then I’ll make us some tea.” She grabs Eli by the arm and practically hauls him back to his room, crosses her arms once she lets him go. “Shirt off,” she orders him, and Eli rolls his eyes.

“Grandma, those guys and I just _talked_ -”

“Shirt off,” she repeats, and Eli sighs heavily, knows he’s being dramatic, but so is she. He slides his shirt off anyway, displays his only lightly-bruised body to her with upraised arms, because what else are you going to do when Faith Bradley gives you an order?

“See? Nothing. I told you, we just _talked_ ,” he said as she finally nods her head to indicate she approves of- what, of his physical condition?

“That isn’t the first time I’ve seen you run out that door at this hour and come back with bruises,” she snaps at him. “That worked your grandfather right back up, you know.”

And there’s the shame again, burning higher this time, up high enough to choke him. “They shouldn’t be lighting those off,” he says around a ball in his throat, his eyes avoiding his grandmother’s.

Faith softens, just a little bit. “I know that, Eli. But you and me, we’re just regular people. We do what we can in our own lives, but there’s folks out there who don’t care about hurting others. You gotta be careful when you’re dealing with those.”

Eli scrubs his eyes with a fist--there’s dust in them, obviously. “I know,” he says, even though every fiber of him is screaming that he’s _not_ , that just ‘cause there are dangerous people out there doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do everything you can to stop them. He says it because it’s what Faith needs to hear right now, because pretty soon those kids that he failed to stop are gonna start lighting off the firecrackers and Isaiah’s gonna need her in the living room, not here in their ungrateful grandson’s bedroom, lecturing him about worrying his veteran grandfather. “I’m sorry.”

And Faith smiles softly, brushes her thumb against his cheek. “Do you want tea?” she asks as she leaves the room, and Eli shakes his head.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” he says. “I’m beat.”

“Well okay. I’ll shut your door, then.” Her voice tells him she doesn’t entirely believe him, but won’t push any more, has to get back out there to her husband. “Sweet dreams, Elijah.”

“‘Night, Grandma.”

Of course, he doesn’t go to sleep immediately. He lays down on his bed, springs creaking under his back, and looks up at the ceiling and wishes for oblivion, imagines punching those boys in the face until his fists are raw, coming back up the stairs with a sheepish look on his face and his grandfather’s proud and happy smile.

But no. He and Grandma Faith are _regular people_ , and regular people have to live with the horrors their grandfathers went through, have to deal with the mistreatment they still deal with today, even though they’re heroes. Regular people have to live with the fact that they _aren’t_ heroes, and never will be.

Eli flops onto his queasy, twisted stomach, presses his face into his pillow, and forces himself to exhale heavily until the threat of angry tears has passed and he’s tired enough to fall asleep, blocking out the -- _pop_ \-- that continues from below and the soft moans of his grandfather with scrunched eyes and hot hands itching to be fists clamped tightly around his ears. 


End file.
